The Awakening (A BBC SherlockMoriarty Vampire - Canon - Au)
by dUnderscoreT
Summary: What could go wrong when Moriarty, a once psychopath, reluctant new vampire, with heightened emotions, and Sherlock a curious to a fault sleuth, who once played a deadly cat and mouse game, connect? Full Description in Chapter 1
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome to the Series/Metamorphisis: Book I: The Awakening. (Full Summary Below the Tags)  
**

 **Please Read Tags before you read the story. Some themes may be disturbing.**

 **Tag Warning: Explicit mentions of rape in the form of professional analysis on a corpse (no actual rape or attempted rape).**

 **Other Tags: Violence, Action, Humor, Slow Burn, Fantasy, Vampire-centric scenes - blood drinking, possessive and protective personality, Canon Sherlock-Centric, Light BDSM Play, More to be added as they appear.**

 **Full Story Summary/Synopsis:**

A year, and not a whisper of Moriarty. When he's found dead on Sherlock's couch, he and John are in for a big surprise. The dead can become undead, and like attracts like.

Experiencing emotions isn't for the feint of heart, especially for a Psychopath. Moriarty, a reluctant vampire, learns this the hard way. Not only does he now feel emotions, but as a vampire they are heightened.

The government are known for weaponizing power, so Sherlock can't report Moriarty, nor will Moriarty let him. Studying a vampire is an opportunity Sherlock won't let pass, and Moriarty knows it. What can possibly go wrong when a once psychopath, new vampire with heightened emotions, and a curious to a fault sleuth, two people who once played a deadly game of cat and mouse, connect?

* * *

 **Metamorphosis Series:**  
 **Book One**  
 **The Awakening**

 **Chapter One**

With a shaking bloody hand, Jim Moriarty turned the door-knob of two-two-one-B-Baker Street. He quietly opened the door - midway, a dizzy wave made him sway towards it. Gritting his teeth, he stopped it from slamming against the wall. He had to be quiet. He needed help and wouldn't get it if he were to be discovered by their Land Lady, Ms. Hudson. There may have been screaming, possible things being thrown at him, and then the Police would have been called.

No-no. His words were breathy as he said, "Too soon. Not yet." He kept his back to the door as he took in a few deep breaths. He was tired, sore, and it took ever bit of his remaining strength to keep himself upright. After what he'd been through this was cake. That's what he told himself as he closed the door. The blatant lie evoked an involuntary huff of amusement.

Even that sounded tired.

He braced his palms on the closed door and shut his eyes. Dizziness threatened to slam him in to unconsciousness. "Almost there," he whispered. His chest moved quickly with struggled breaths. He was so tired.  
White spots in his vision didn't stop him from going to the stairs. He slid his hand along the wall to keep standing, and then he used the banister to go the rest of the way up. It was slow going. Deprived of air lungs made his sore muscles burn as he went up. Sherlock being home was a gamble - the Flat turned out to be empty.

He closed the door, went to the Seating Room, grabbed the blanket from Dr. Watson's chair, lay on the couch and covered his entire body. They may forgive him for dripping blood everywhere. Probably not. It wasn't like it'd matter. He hadn't turned on a light and the darkness made him feel relaxed - Free.

He could finally just stop, and he had. Dizziness crashed over him and this time he didn't fight it. His awareness abruptly dropped and then swirled down - clockwise around, and then his covered body took on a heavy appearance. A few vehicles outside went by. Silence swelled in the darkened room, bringing the refrigerators hum to attention.

* * *

"I can't wait to go to sleep," John said.

"Well, it has been over twenty-four hours, so it's understandable," Sherlock said.

They were on the sidewalk, heading for the door. John's exhaustion made him even point at it. "Yes," he said and walked faster.

Sherlock's eyes were heavy lidded, with light gray circles just beneath his bottom lid. His curly hair was barely frizzled though. He'd looked a lot worse and still stayed up much longer. John reached for the door and he grabbed his wrist to stop him. "What," he asked, no longer sounding tired.

Sherlock rarely touched anyone, so the shock caused a burst of adrenaline. "There's blood on the door-knob and the door," he said.

John looked at it and yes, there it was. Sherlock, with an ever gloved hand when outside, turned the door-knob. He slowly opened the door, John peeking under his arm. There was no one inside and there were no sounds hinting at Ms. Hudson being home. But that didn't mean she wasn't.

Bloody footprints started at the door and went up the stairs. "Do you think it's Ms. Hudson's blood here," John asked.

"No. The footprints are too big and if Ms. Hudson was injured, it wouldn't make since for her to go outside and then come back in to the Flat. She'd of called Emergency, rather she was inside or away from here. Or someone else would have," Sherlock said.

Relief flooded him and after taking in a deep breath John followed him to the stairs. Sherlock used his clean glove to touch below lines of blood on the wall as he went. All signs pointed to the injured person going to the Flat. It hadn't been the first time something like this had happened, but there'd never been this much blood. They'd even come home to find a dead body in the Seating room.

It was the victim's dying wish for them to solve their murder. John may have been a Doctor, but he'd just eaten and he was tired. He wasn't sure he could handle seeing a corpse right now, and with this much blood, he was pretty sure it's what they were about to find. The Flat's door was open - blood was on it's knob as well, and a bloody hand print above it. Sherlock studied it then said, "The palm is more bold than the fingers, which makes since."

"The person could be five-three at most, but the thickness on the knob means they squeezed it hard, and pushed the door open in an up-like manner. Like the evidence shows, they're obviously wounded, most likely already dead. They had to have been leaning over, so most likely a stomach wound. Although, it could be broken ribs, but if that were the case, they wouldn't have pressed up. They would've pressed forward."

"They were so weak that they shouldn't have been able to get here. Who ever they were, they were determined."  
That Sherlock said they 'were' confirmed the victim was already dead. Also, that he didn't say 'boring' meant he was, at the most, curious. The flat was illuminated only by the lit building across the street and the street lights, but the Flat was higher, so they could barely make out the shape of things. Sherlock clicked on the standing lamp and he blinked. "The couch," he said tonelessly.

A small crease appeared between John's brows. As many dead bodies as he'd seen he'd mostly developed a tolerance for the sight of them, but none affected him as much as a person who appeared to have died peacefully, when it'd been anything but. This one had most likely been stabbed and had used their last bit of energy to come to them for after death retribution. They were hidden beneath his personal blanket, curled towards the couch. "They couldn't have been there long," he said.

"There's no stench."

"Yes," Sherlock said distractedly. He was walking towards the couch, predatorily focused on the covered body. He worked a part of the blanket over their middle, which left their face and legs concealed. "It came free easily. The body isn't stiff, but the blankets not warm."

"It feels room temperature. It makes it impossible to determine the length of time they've been dead. Strange." He uncovered their face and his eyes squinched up. Blood was splattered on their right cheek, over their nose, and on their forehead.

The corner of their lip was busted and bruised, blood had run down their chin and dried, and blood had dried in their nostrils. His initial reaction to exactly who this was should have been dramatic, but it was too improbable for him to process, much less accept. "John, can you confirm something for me," he said, once again, tonelessly.

He'd remained a reasonable distance back. Immediately walking forward he said, "What?"

"I just... Just do it. Tell me who this is." He stepped back enough for him to see.

One glance and he knew. "My God," he said. "It's Moriarty."

* * *

Sherlock groaned in that life suffering way he does when he's just done. With whatever the current thing he's being forced to endure is. He was known for dramatics. "You've asked the same question three times in different ways. Like rewording it will make us slip up and admit to murder," he said to Lestrad, and if anyone else would've said that last part you'd think it had been the slip up.

Sherlock was different. His offense usually meant he knew something you didn't and that he was disappointed by how simple minded everyone else was. Like knowing what others didn't was the most exasperating thing he'd ever experienced. He and John were seated across Lestrad's work desk. Because of their upstanding reputation... yeah right (even though they solved most of the crimes) with the police force they were there instead of the interview room.

Actually, Lestrad, the head detective, was a close friend. So close, in fact, that they referred to him by his first name, Greg. Well, John did. Sherlock forgot (douchely pretended not to remember) it most of the time. Thankfully, Sherlock had gained his respect and he never took it seriously, and Sherlock occasionally throwing his name out there, proving that he did know it, showed that he also considered him a friend.

"We were on that Case, the one with the missing husband, the one you gave us, and we stopped to get Fish and Chips before we went home," John said tiredly.

Lestrad had a Manila folder open on his desk and had written their statement down, plus the answers to his additional questions. "It's procedure, you know that," he said kindly.

"Yes yes. Can I go now. I want to be there when Molly examines Moriarty's body," Sherlock said. John sighed resignedly. Usually, he wouldn't do that much. Sherlock was Sherlock and morbidity didn't register in his brain. Only an inexplicable need to Know to Learn to Understand - everything. Minus anything containing the Solar System. He'd - Begin Quote: "Deleted useless information to make room for important things." - End Quote.

"Just one last question."

"Ugh. What?"

Undaunted by Sherlock's unrestrained irritation, Lestrad said, "Any theories on why Moriarty would come to your flat just to die? Did he think you'd try and solve his murder?" He hesitated, then said, "Do you plan on trying to solve his murder?"

"I haven't decided yet," Sherlock said.

John looked at him in surprise and said, "Really? I thought you'd jump at the chance. Moriarty was you're-" He did air-quotes saying, "-greatest distraction yet. And someone took that away from you."

Lestrad closed the folder and put his pen in the blue mug with the rest of them. "I wished I could say I'm surprised, but I'm really not," he said.

"Yes, typical," John said. He looked at Sherlock again and his expression was blank. He didn't care what they thought. His awareness was fully on the Morgue he'd yet to get to.

"Does that mean I can go," he said.

Waving a dismissive hand, Lestrad said, "Yes yes. Go." He sounded tired, but no where near how John did.

Sherlock was gone in a flair of coat and purposeful strides. John rubbed his eyes and told Lestrad that he'd better follow him, to the best of his abilities, keep him in track around Molly. Manners were something Sherlock had, up until they'd met, been thought of as annoying and useless. Honestly, he hadn't truly understood the concept (Manners are a social necessity and the proper way to associate with "Human Beings.") In the two years John had known him he'd managed to help him cultivate, at the least, that concept.

Plus, that manners got you further than being rude, "and the world isn't just about you, Sherlock." It was still hit and miss.

* * *

Seeing a Psychopath who had killed so many innocent people, and deceived her in to dating him - he could have killed her - laying on her Slab was beyond unnerving. His face was soft line mixed with delicate features. Before Molly had known him he'd looked so cute, so innocent, and he'd seemed like such a sweet heart even. Even in death that innocent deception was present. His eyelids held the most delicacy and she studied them, taking in his short, light brown eyelashes.

He looked peaceful. The thought of cutting him open made her feel sick. She leaned her head back, closing her eyes, and sucked air in through her nose. This was who she was, a mortician - she could do this. First, she had to analyze his body, th-th-then the cutting.

She cleared her throat, adjusted her lab coat, and turned to the silver instrument tray. She removed a pair of bright blue elastic gloves, happy to see they weren't powdered. The powder made her hands break out. A blue paper blanket covered Moriarty from his neck to his ankles. She rolled the top to his belly-button.

She clicked on a hand held voice recorder and spoke aloud as she analyzed his body. "Subjects Name: Jim Moriarty, Caucasian Male, Age: thirty-one, Height: Five-three, short brown hair, brown eyes. Large purple bruises cover the Sternum, which no doubt means multiple broken ribs, will know for sure during the Autopsy. Wound to the right side of bottom lip, gash in right side of right eyebrow, large bruise on right cheek. The yellow with in the brown means it's been healing for a while, so it's older than the previously mentioned ones."

"Possibly a bruise over a bruise, which means repeated abuse to same area over short periods of time." She opened the fingers on his left hand and said, "Left hand cuticles are red and swollen and top knuckles are broken open, which tells me he was left handed. Assumed Hypothesis is that he was in a recent altercation, but the bruises once again suggest repeated abuse. It's possible he was being held against his will and tortured. From his hand wounds it's seems he fought back, and recently."

"These wounds are fresh. Right hand has a purple bruise around the wrist, in the shape of a large hand and fingers. Who ever did this was very strong. Attackers Estimated Height: Six foot to Six foot two." She removed the blue paper blanket completely and froze.

Tingles ran from the middle of her spine to the back of her head. She felt sick again. "Large dark brown bruises on both hips... in the shape of large hand prints. Knees are bruise a darker brown color, like he lost his balance and fell. His feet are in good condition, meaning he had been wearing shoes."

"However, the shoes weren't present at the Scene."

She involuntarily gulped at what she had to do next. The Rape Kit. She knew already. The knowledge that he'd suffered like that, regardless of who he was- was- horrific. And her findings confirmed her suspicion. "Subject has been recently sexual assaulted."

Her voice didn't waver this time. She clicked the recorder off and closed her eyes, her hand still on the button. "Moriarty... Jim," she said. "You didn't deserve this." She opened her eyes and brought her hand to her side.

"I'm so sorry." Her eyes stung and she sniffed before fanning her face. She needed air, but it was unethical to leave the Morgue once she'd started. Instead, she walked to the other side of the room and braced her hands on an empty Slab. It was a natural human response to feel emotionally affected by tragedy, even more so when you know the person, but this level of emotion...

She couldn't help it. He was Jim in her mind, regardless, and she hadn't experience the Moriarty side of his personality. She refused to feel weak. Emotions were Human and she accepted hers. More people would be happy if they did the same. Accept you're human, analyze your feelings, move on.

With that in mind she pushed away from the Slab. She turned around and felt a scream gather in her throat, and freeze there. She couldn't speak, she couldn't think, she couldn't move. Moriarty was there, his expression was blank, his pupils were completely dilated. They were what scared her the most.

He looked inhuman and she felt more fear than she ever had. She watched his left arm move towards her, felt his fingers close around the back of her neck, and they were a strange temperature of cool. Not cold like being a corpse laying on a cold metal Slab way, but just... cool. It made her think of Life. If him standing in front of her wasn't proof enough that he was alive, then his temperature was.

But what was wrong with his eyes? His top lip raised and her eyes widened. Fangs. He had fangs. No, this had to be a trick.

But she'd checked his pulse and he'd been dead. Besides acknowledging the obvious she couldn't think - still, or move. She was going to die. He brought her against him and him being naked was a fleeting thought. Another scream became stuck in her throat.

Her arms were barely raised from her sides. They wouldn't move either. She was paralyzed from fear. There was a rip sound and cold morgue air told her it was her left sleeve. Her shoulder was bare.

The pain of fangs puncturing just behind her shoulder kicked her body in gear. Her hands flew to his sides and she growled. The vocalization was an involuntary reaction to pain, but her eyes felt dewy from un-shed tears, and she felt helpless. Now she could feel the tight sensation of him sucking on her neck. It hurt.  
Her arms shook from shock as she tried to push him off.

Moriarty took a step forward, throwing her off balance, and she would've fallen against a Slab if his hold on her hadn't been as firm as it was. "Get off," she only managed to whisper. It felt wrong to call him Moriarty, so she didn't. "Jim... Jim, please. Get off."

Another tight suck to her shoulder and blurriness crept in to the corners of her vision. No, he had already taken too much. Any more would bring her closer to the death she'd been expecting.

"Jim Jim," she said in panic. "Stop. Stop, you have to stop. Jim." A sob abruptly left her mouth and tears flooded her vision.

She clawed at his sides, his shoulder, his back, and got no reaction from him. He felt like a wall against her, too strong to be human. Even though she knew he wasn't human, couldn't be, her mind couldn't process it, and she was dying. In a blur of seconds her neck stung, the grip on her was gone and she was falling.

She abruptly stopped falling and her head spun.

She felt herself being lowered, felt the floor underneath her, couldn't process the cold, and a pole from the bottom of a Slab holding her in a sitting position. Her breathing was erratic and she squinted, trying to figure out what had happened, what was happening. She first saw alabaster skin, kneeling, Jim's face blinked in and out of focus. He looked... worried. "Strange," she mumbled.

The world titled and she had the thought it wasn't the world, but her that was moving. She was carefully righted back to a sitting position. When she came to she was laying down, a weight was on her, and a minor ache pulsed in her temples. She tried to sit up and felt a hand on her chest. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," she heard.

She touched the hand in confusion. Two things registered at once. Jim, no - Moriarty was standing over her, touching her, and she was laying on a Slab. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to scream. The hand on her covered it.

This time when he spoke his thick Irish accent registered in her brain, causing the hair on the back of her neck to raise. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said.  
Who was he trying to kid...? Something was niggling in her mind, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She'd analyzed his body... apologized to his corpse for what he'd endured before death... and... h-he was a freaking vampire. He'd attacked her. She shoved his hand off and tried to get off the Slab.

Her head spun violently and she nearly toppled head first in to the floor. He was suddenly in front of her and she couldn't fight back as he eased her back down. "You have an I.V. in you're arm," she heard him say. "Rather nifty having a blood supply of Oh-Negative down here. I wonder where you got it seeing as only six-point-six percent of the population have it."

"Well compensated donors," she said. Her eyes were closed. "So, you're giving me a transfusion. Why?"

"Because it's possible you may die with out it and it's not like I can just take you up to the main hospital wing... and it's not like I'm going to leave you here to try and make your way there on your own. So... transfusion."

She groaned. It felt like someone was hammering her temples.

"Would you like some Tylenol. There's a full bottle in the desk drawer."

"Yes, please," she said before she thought about it. She couldn't accept medicine from him. What if he tried to poison her now? Did that make since? Why would he do that? Wouldn't he have already killed her if he'd wanted to.

Yes.

* * *

 **I haven't posted on FFNet for so long, and I'm please to present to you a story which I needed in my life. You know what they say, if you find a story you want to read, write it. I feel blessed that I have that skill. I hope you enjoy it as much as I am enjoying writing it. I invite you sto Subscribe to keep up with new chapters, and I love talking about it, so you're welcome to leave Comments about it. Also, constructive criticism is welcome.**

 **~Demitria_Teague (Author)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two  
**

"Sherlock, would you please slow down. I'm so tired I feel like about to fall over," John said.

Sherlock sighed and halted. He jacket collar concealed his mouth as he looked over his shoulder. His annoyance melted when he saw how tired he really was. His eyes were half lidded and his shoulders were drooping.

John's gave a strained thank you. He kept his pace slower this time. That he'd done it was a sign that he cared. They had used the elevator to go down four floors and the change had been immediate. The walls 'nor hallway were sterile white.

The walls were neutral gray and the floors, off-white mixed with faded orange. They passed an aged gurney against the wall and a few rarely used offices with large glass windows.

Sherlock's phone rang and he dug it out of his large coat pocket. He halted and curious, John stopped to watch him. "Molly-Molly... what's wrong," he said. His right arm had bent, like he was reaching out for comfort. John unknowingly moved a fraction towards it, but they didn't touch.

At the change in Sherlock's expression John tilted his head. There was an intensity that anyone else would've assumed was anger, but John could tell he was confused. Very confused. Sherlock said, "I'm already on my way. I'll be there in a minute." He hung up, still looking confused.

"Well," John said.

Looking unfocused he said, "Molly said that... Moriarty... is alive."

An amused sound came from John and he said, "That's impossible. We both saw the body. He's dead. Why would she say such a thing?"

"I know, and I have no idea." He looked at him and said, "But something's wrong." Shock had kept him from immediately rushing that way. His eyes focused and he was back to himself, sharp gaze, determined, and then his burst of movement had John moving as quickly as him. The Morgue had double metal enforced doors.

They pushed them open and froze. Wide-eyed they saw him. Moriarty, the man who relished in playing deadly games with Sherlock. The Psychopath felt no remorse for killing innocent people. He was no longer corpse pale and his wounds were gone.

He was wearing light blue Scrubs and his feet were bare. Molly sat on a slab, two over from his. Looking at them she turned her cellphone nervously over in her hands. Her left sleeve hung in tatters, revealing her shoulder. Gauze was taped to it.

"Oh, my God," John said hurrying towards her.

Sherlock glanced at them and then turned a glare towards Moriarty. "Did he do this? What happened," he heard John say.

"Hi," Moriarty said in that sing-songy way he'd done when they'd first met. This time his face wasn't blank. His eyebrows were raised, his eyes glistened like they'd done when he'd played Jim from I.T., and his smile didn't reach them. It was more of a grimace that made him look... embarrassed.

"How is this possible," Sherlock said.

John said, "You son of a-"

"No need to be nasty," Moriarty said.

Sherlock looked at them. Molly was covering her shoulder and John had a hand on her arm. He looked like he wanted to kill him.

"I didn't do it on purpose. How was I supposed to know I'd come back from the dead, and needing blood no less."

"Molly, what's he talking about," John said.

Sherlock looked at Moriarty. His face appeared strained, like he was holding back from showing dramatic offense. His voice was breathy from disbelief, but his eyes sparkled with intense curiosity when he said, "You were dead, though."

Sighing, Moriarty rolled his eyes. "I was," he said.

"Then how-"

"I don't know. If I did..." He made an amused noise. "I have no idea where I was going with that sentence. I honestly don't know."

"I mean, there was that little bit about a vampire abducting me and keeping me captive for eight months. Maybe it had something to do with that." He looked way too amused.

"Vampires? That's-"

"I know, right?" He looked at Molly and Sherlock's nostril's flared. He went to her and blocked her from sight.

"Sherlock," he heard Molly say, and then he felt her hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at her. Except what was hidden by the gauze she had no visible wounds. He said, "What did he do to you?"

"He's not joking. He is a vampire," she said.

His head shook jerkily, because he didn't know how to respond.

"I know it's crazy, but he has fangs. I saw them and he bit me. He actually drank my blood."

"That's..." Even John couldn't respond.

"I said I was sorry," Moriarty said. He sounded like he meant it, but there was an underlying amusement, like he couldn't himself.

Looking at him, Sherlock said, "Vampires aren't real. This is some kind of trick. His supposed death was an illusion, and he's getting off on the fact that we fell for it."

"Oh-ho-ho. I guess you have it all figured out then," Moriarty said in a way that made him hesitate. Vampires weren't real. He really looked at him... and got nothing revealing how he'd fooled them. Compared to how he'd looked in the Flat he looked healthy. His skin was smooth, no visible pores, enough peach in the alabaster tone to show he was alive, his hair had grown out and was thick, his fingernails shined like he'd visited a salon.

He looked better than he ever had.

"Prove it," Sherlock said.

"What?" Moriarty's gaze sharpened, like he was making sure he'd heard him right.

"I said prove it. If you're a vampire, prove it." He smirked and straightened his shoulders.

"Sherlock, no," Molly said and her fear made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. She'd been attacked, no doubt, and fooled in to thinking he was a vampire. What he'd done to her was sick. He'd stabbed her shoulder, but not with actual fangs. It just wasn't possible.

Customized dentures, perhaps.

Moriarty fluidly pushed himself off the slab and landed on his feet. He straightened his shoulders and Sherlock was unnerved by his confidence. He said, "Just remember, you asked for this." There was no warning. Moriarty was two Slabs down and then he was a hairs-breath away.

He watched as his light brown irises were drowned by the full expansion of his pupil's. His own eyes had widened. Moriarty didn't blink - it was more unnerving than when Molly had told him not to agg him on. He couldn't stop a gulp. Moriarty was shorter than him, so he had to look up at him.

He raised his head more and Sherlock could feel his breath on his lips. He said, "I bet you're wondering how." His mouth moved a couple times, but no response came. "Yes, of course you don't know what to say. I am a vampire."

"Vampires aren't real," he reflexively said and it came out low. Shock kept him from being angry at the obvious weakness.

He opened his arms and said, "And yet, here I am." Like an animal he tilted his head and stared. He still hadn't blinked. Sherlock held himself tall, refusing to back down. Moriarty leaned closer and he had the impulse to move back.

He didn't.

Moriarty did something that made his nerves prickle with caution. He closed his eyes and slowly inhaled. The sound of his voice startled him. He said, "Mm, your scent is... mouth watering, Sherlock."

"My scent," he said without emotion. He didn't believe he was a vampire. Somehow, this was all a trick. Being wary was logical, but he couldn't help being intrigued. Human Interest was a guilty pleasure, and Moriarty was different than ninety-eight percent of the population.

He opened his eyes and they were heavy, like he was... No. "You're body heat is higher than most, you're male so there's a large salt content to your skin, and there's something light to your scent. Do you use floral body wash?" He gave him a teasing smile.

Sherlock's raised his chin.

"You do, don't you. That's delicious. Also, you're iron is a little low. You should probably take vitamins. It's from all that thinking and not eating."

"That's bad for you, Sherlock."

A throat cleared.

Sherlock's eyes flicked to the side. "Yes, John?"

"What is happening? Molly has been attacked and we're sitting here... doing... what ever it is the two of you are doing."

"I'm fine, really," Molly said.

"No you're not. This entire situation is insane. I'm calling Lestrad."  
Sherlock was pushed out of the way and nearly fell. He grabbed the middle slab, making it roll a little forward. Moriarty had taken John's phone away. John swung at him and he grabbed his arm. He spun him around and pushed him in Sherlock.

They both fell, Molly gasped and cowered to the side. Moriarty was now standing beside her. His attention was only on them though. He said, "I told you, vampire."

Sherlock and John used each other to get to their feet. They were both breathing hard. Silence stretched out. Sherlock said, "If you really are a vampire, and I still don't believe it, but if you are, then why are you still here?"

"To kill us," John said.

Moriarty snorted. "If I wanted to kill you I'd of already done it."

"He also could've killed me," Molly said. Her eyes immediately widened and she covered her mouth.

"Taken up for me now, darling," Moriarty said. She had gone stiff. He smiled endearingly at her.

"Leave her out of this," John said.

He looked at him and his smile melted, like he was sorry for making her uncomfortable. Sherlock blinked rapidly. "Why are you acting this way, repressing," he said.

"Repressing, me? Please." That smile was back. "So, where do we go from here, boys? I'm done playing."

"I need help. As you know, I've recently become a vampire and I can't... I need blood, but I can't..." He growled and turned away.

With raised eyebrows John looked at Sherlock, whose expression was less expressive. They were both thinking: What the hell is going on? They looked back and Moriarty was angrily talking to himself. He crossed his hands and flicked them out, like he was cutting himself off. Facing them, looking dramatically bemused, he said, "No more of that."

He studied Sherlock's expression and his own went from bemused to pleased. He said, "You're curios... about the fangs, I mean. You don't think they're real, so do it... check my orifice."

John made a face, because Moriarty was being, well, gross, but more suggestive than usual. The sound of Sherlock's moving shoe on the floor made him look at him. Looking prepared to fight, he watched him go to Moriarty and stop. Sherlock is tall, so he had to move over to see. Moriarty wiggled the fingers on one hand, prompting Sherlock to give him one of his.

"What if he tries to bite your finger off," John said quickly.

"Ew, don't be gross," Moriarty said.

"Me, gross? Molly said you drank her blood and you're calling me gross."

He looked unhappy at his words. His attention went back to Sherlock and he said, "Come on. You want to see up-close, so I'm letting you. It's not often I let people touch me, much less my mouth."

Standing tall, chin raised, with arms crossed behind his back, Sherlock looked every bit the emotional detached man he proclaimed to be. John watched him give Moriarty his hand. He arranged his fingers to grip his jaw, then he opened his mouth to reveal his top set of teeth. There was a stalled second and then Sherlock's chin raised a little higher. He let go of his jaw and took a step back.

Moriarty's head adjust to normal height and a rivulet of blood ran over his bottom lip. It dripped off and he caught it. "Like I said, vampire," he said around the rest of the blood in his mouth. More of it dripped in to his hand. He went to the large basin sink and washed his hands.

As he swished water around his mouth, Sherlock said, "You had retractable teeth implanted?"

Moriarty spit the water out and let out a 'Ha'. He faced him and said, "No. Something like that could malfunction and destroy my jaw... or end up in my eyes... or worse, my brain. Besides, I'm not even sure something like that exists." Smiling, he dried his hands on his pants. The blue Scrubs became darker where water was left behind.

"Then how-"

"Oh, come on. Your repetitiveness is starting to bore me. What is it you always say? When you've eliminated the impossible, what ever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Walking towards him he said, "Any other questions?"

"Concerns? Observations that need to be made? Would you like me to break your arm? How about your leg?" He looked at John and said, "What about his?"

John's head tilted in way that meant he was nervous, but prepared to fight if he had to. Moriarty smiled and it grew as Sherlock stepped in front of him. Sherlock said, "Leave him out of this."

* * *

"So, what do you think," Sherlock said. They were outside getting fresh air - they'd convinced a reluctant Molly to go home early. Why she'd been resistant was a mystery.

John exhaled angry breaths from his nose and faced him. "You want to know what I think," he said while tapping his index finger to his chest. He pointed to the hospital and said, "I still think he's off his rocker. That's what I think, and pore Molly-"

He pushed his palms down and took in a deep breath. "I want to kill him. I do."  
Sherlock's expression had remained neutral. The corners of his lips twitched like he'd repressed a smile. "And," he said.

"And? And? And I don't know what. You didn't feel the strength he has, and what about the fangs. You watched them..." He waved his hand around. "...come... out...?"

"And afterwards blood poured from his gums. Did that really happen? How could he fake that? This entire thing is insane. I think we should call Mycroft."

He reached in to his pocket and growled. "Damn it. He still has my phone. Let me use yours." Sherlock's expression made him scowl.

"Seriously, this again? This is a situation we're not equipped to deal with. We have to call him. What if he hurts someone else? We should've already called him."

Sherlock groaned and said, "I know we should, but... what do you think the government will do with a vampire? What do they always do when they discover a new power?"

John hesitated. "Weaponize it," he said dejectedly.

"Exactly."

"So, what, we're going to take him under our wing, is that it? He's a Psychopath... that may or may not actually be a vampire... and he's already attacked one innocent person. And exactly what does he need our help for?"

Sherlock had that look in his eyes - the one he got when he was beyond intrigued with something. Akin to obsession and it did not bode well. "John, Moriarty is still here. He didn't kill Molly, and technically when he took your phone he didn't attack you either."

John's eyes had widened.

"And he's asking for help, and he seems completely out of his element. There's something going on with him that he's not happy with. I have a theory."

"A theory? You have a theory? You have officially lost it." He turned away from him, took a few deep-deep breaths, ran his fingers through his hair and faced him again. "Let's here it."

"From my observation, he can attack people, possibly even kill them, but not by his own choosing. His need for blood, and that's going on the theory he's actually a vampire, is like the human's self preservation, that clawing need to survive. Except it's literally his body that takes control to keep itself alive. Him, himself, Moriarty, he is furious that he can't kill someone, because..." He smirked.

"...because, as a vampire, his emotions are heightened. Psychopaths can't feel real emotion. It's like it's behind a wall and even if they want to they can't access it's entirety. Which leads to violence, boredom, manipulation, etc., etc. The second party of my theory is that vampires are sensitive creatures, the constant regeneration of cells at such a high level has crushed that wall, so he now has a conscience."

"His emotions aren't just alive, John, but heightened."

John sighed, because this was the moment where Sherlock's point was obvious, but only to himself. He said, "Can you repeat that in lamens terms, please?"

Sherlock was thrumming with excited energy, so his usual frustration at not being understood wasn't present. "It means that like a normal functional human being-"

"The boring ones."

"-Exactly."

John rolled his eyes.

Sherlock continued. "He has a conscience. He feels real joy, sadness, and most importantly guilt. If he tries to hurt someone or kill them he'll have to fight his conscience to do it. I'm not saying he can't kill, but it'll be as hard as a woman who has to kill a burglar to save herself."

"I'm not hearing the good part, here."

"He needs our help, because he's desperate. We're good people, so... minimally trust worthy, and I'm me. He knows I'm intrigued. And he's battling with himself. If he can't kill people, then how is he going to get blood?" Sherlock had grabbed his shoulders and was one step away from shaking him.

John pushed his hands away and said, "I didn't stop him from attacking Molly."  
Sherlock sighed and said, "And we've already covered this. He didn't kill her... Actually, I don't know why he didn't. He needed blood immediately. If he is a vampire and it was his first feeding, then how did he stop himself?"

"Maybe his emotions are more heightened than I thought." His eyes unfocused and John rolled his own. Here he went. Lost to the world as he analyzed everything he'd deduced.

* * *

The Morgue was empty.

"Damn it," John yelled.

Sherlock walked slowly to the Slab Moriarty had been sitting on. John's phone lay face-up. He awoke the screen and took in a deep breath.

"I knew something like this was going to happen," he heard John say.

"John?"

"We should've called Mycroft why we had the chance."

"John-"

"What," he said spinning to face him.

"Moriarty left a message. Seems he heard our conversation and agrees with my thoughts on turning him over to the government."

John grabbed his phone from him and read it:

"Sorry I couldn't stick around, but you and I both know they can't their hands on me. Besides my new 'conscience' I have a few theories of my own. Besides, I'm thirsty again. Bye. -JM"

With up stretched arms he said, "Great. Just what we need. A Psychotic vampire on the loose and no way to stop him, and two of the greatest minds in the world agree we can't call the government. We need the government. How exactly are we supposed to deal with this situation?"

He faltered as Sherlock's smile. "What?"

"I'm not wrong, John. He can't kill someone. And he's struggling with that fact. He's determined to try and figure a way around it. If he does have a conscience, then any way he can come up with..."

Smirking, he shook his head. "...his conscience won't let him. It'll eat him up. He's going to call."

"Call who, you?"

"Yes. It's only a matter of time. Besides, he isn't careless enough to just go around biting people. I'm sure there are some limitations to his abilities."

"Like what?"

"I can't be sure, for obvious reason, but I'm almost positive he can't Mesmer people in to letting him bite them and make them forget about it."

John ruffled the back of his hair and said, "But, if he really is a vampire, it means he did die and come back. He arose from the dead. That's something impossible-"

"Improbable, not impossible," Sherlock said.

"Like I was saying, if he can do something like that then we can't be sure what he's capable of."

"True. Regardless, it's only a matter of time."

"How can you be sure?" The look he gave him said: I'm Sherlock, duh.


End file.
